Bad Company
by shakespearean fool
Summary: Both had grown to be two different people with even different lives, and yet their friendship had not once faltered. But when the girl who has gotten everything finds there is something she cannot have, her dearest friendship is put to the test.
1. Prologue

Prologue:

There he was, cute as always. The three girls couldn't help but giggle in excitement at the sighting of the boy. They were quietly crouched behind a nearby food stand, staring as the newsboy with brilliant blue eyes casually conversed with one of his comrades. They would have been able to spy longer had not a rather grumpy German woman shouting obscenities eventually shoo them away.

As they lulled back to their homes in the hot summer's eve, they marveled at what life would be like if they were different, if they weren't so privileged. They tensed as they imagined living on the streets and selling anything they could just to get a day's worth of food.

"Can you even imagine how you would keep yourself clean!" One blonde girl squeaked.

"How about afford different outfits – I can't stand wearing the same thing twice, let alone the same thing every day," complained another. Both girls looked expectantly at their third companion, who remained quietly in a daze as they continued walking.

After a few beats of expectant silence, the two girls in unison asked, "Isabel?"

Brought out of her elusive trance, Isabel looked at her neighbors and just smiled. She could deal with those things, she thought, but she loved her life, she absolutely loved it. She loved being spoiled. She, over all, loved the attention she received for being who she was – filthy and utterly rich.

"I could handle it," she replied with a cocky air, "but I don't know why on earth you girls are even thinking about it at all."

The two girls looked at each other with stares of doubt and annoyance. "You could _not_ handle it, Isabel, what are you even saying? You couldn't last a day without your precious bath or your daily grooming team. Admit it."

"I could last a day on my own! Easy." Isabel snapped, offended at the prospect of someone thinking her inadequate of anything. "If anything, none of them could last a day in my shoes."

Once more, a look of annoyance passed between the other two girls. "Yeah, because your life is just so complicated." One replied sarcastically. Isabel was, once again, offended at this remark.

"Excuse me! I actually do have a more trying life than you two may care to realize!" She shot back, her nose becoming even more intimate with the heavens.

"Alright Isabel, whatever you say." One girl replied, defeated and knowing the counter argument to be useless.

After their departure, Isabel walked up the many steps to her house, reveling in how beautiful it was. She was lost deep in thought as she walked through the front door, being politely greeted by their night duty butler, a man whose name she still had yet to learn.

"Isabel, is that you?" Slurred an all too familiar voice.

"Yes, mother." She replied, reluctant to have a chat with her all but sober stepmother. She was young and loved her morning champagne, and her afternoon white wine, and her dinner red wine; and then maybe a shot of brandy over ice for dessert, but only if it is a regular day. Should there be an evening party, then there was really no limit to the amount of fine alcohol consumed in one evening.

"How was your day, Isabel dear?" She asked as Isabel entered their living room to find her stepmother lounging upon a small sofa, posing as though she was being painted.

Before Isabel could reply, her stepmother stated, "I was in a brilliantly pleasant mood earlier and decided to assist some of our maids in cleaning." By assisting, Isabel knew that this most nearly meant she was dutifully watching the maids. "I happened to come across something in your room that I have a few questions about."

Isabel froze in her place, her mood changing swiftly from irritation to apprehension. "What's that?" She questioned, attempting to sound anything but slightly nervous, her heart beginning to pick up speed.

"Oh nothing, really," slurred her elegant stepmother, "I just noticed you have stopped painting -- and I think that that's really a wonderful thing, by the way -- I was just hoping you could move the easel out into our living room for a while, so we can appear more refined and … cultured, if you will. For our next few parties, of course. We're having a few successful artists and publishers over and I want to impress."

Isabel let out a sigh of relief. "Sure, I suppose. But just because I haven't had time to paint lately does not mean I've stopped altogether. I still love it and don't intend on stopping anytime soon."

"Alright, darling. Whatever you insist. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to enjoy some time out here alone. It was lovely chatting with you." And with that swift and delicate conclusion, her stepmother turned her head and continued sipping her glass of wine, Isabel's cue to exit.

As she made her way to her room, she thought about how ridiculous she had been for being nervous. There was no way her stepmother would care to go through her things enough to find her out. No way. She grinned to herself, shaking her head, and opened the door to her room.

After spending plenty of time settling in her room and resting on her rather inviting bed, she lazily looked at the clock on her nightstand. She suddenly realized that she would be late meeting with her friend and was up in an instant. They always got together every Thursday night to enjoy a good laugh, and maybe a few rounds of poker. Both had known the other since childhood and had remained good friends, even through many trying circumstances.

She reached inside her bursting closet and fished out the clothes she was looking for, safely hidden in the back.

_I really ought to get some new skirts for this sort of thing, _she thought to herself as she eyed the slightly rancid outfit – rancid compared to what she was used to, of course, and not exactly the kinds of garments fit for a rich girl. _I'm getting quite sick of wearing this old thing every Thursday. _

She made a mental note to herself to go shopping the next day as she pulled off her dress and put on her new – and yet, not so nice – attire, ready to head out. To conceal her new outfit underneath it, she slipped into her nice fur coat. There was really no point in trying too hard. After all, the company she was about to be in could care little to nothing about what she was wearing.

The night breeze touched her face in such a loving, delicate way, she could not help but close her eyes and open up her palms to it. There was nothing in the world that could make her feel so free as when she felt that breeze. Sometimes, she would imagine the breeze picking her up and carrying her along with it, leaving her soaring like a bird over the city beneath her.

After her surprisingly brief encounter with the evening's draft, she had reached her destination, the sounds of clinking beer glasses and laughter exuding from the cozy night café. She was greeted by several people outside with a tip of their hats and she smiled and nodded in response.

The small room that made up the café was filled with all kinds of people, young and old, emanating a comfortable and welcoming glow. There was a band playing a good dancing tune in the far corner, and several people were merrily filing onto the dance floor.

Making her way through the crowds of people, she maneuvered her way to the back, where she could tell there was an intense game of poker going on. As she approached the table, a young man with sparkling blue eyes looked up at her and smiled, a crooked, smug smile that she knew all too well.

"Well, look who finally decided to join us, eh fellahs?" The boy said, getting up and making his way to Isabel, with several unintelligible grunts from a few of the boys.

"Hello there, Spot. Sorry I'm late."


	2. Chapter One

Chapter 1:

She had not told her friends earlier that day, but it was in fact the same newsboy they had been eyeing just a few hours before. Isabel loved a good secret.

"Ah, no prollem, Is. I figured you'd be late." He smiled and placed two cards on the table to be replaced.

"I just got caught up in what I was doing. Have you won anything so far?"

"Nah, nothing yet. I've been doing real lousy lately when it comes to poker."

A boy in the circle snickered, "Yeah he has. He's lost more money than that Racetrack over in Manhattan."

"Ey, shut it wise guy," Spot snapped. "Or you're gonna lose a lot more than your money." The boy lost all color in his face and covered it with his cards. No one insulted Spot, even if he himself did.

Isabel smiled at him, and he smiled back, a twinkle in his eye that only she could notice. He had hardened over the years, his family went through a lot, and left him in the wake of it all, but his pride had yet to leave him.

At an early age Spot had to learn to take care of himself. They had befriended one another when they were both very young - about four or five - and never tired of the other's company. Even when Isabel's father's business began to pick up speed, and wages, she still made time for Spot and never looked down on him. Spot had always been her exception when it came to tolerating the poor. She admired him and how he was able to go from the lowest of the low to the leader and king of Brooklyn, feared by all the newsies throughout New York.

"Deal me in." Isabel said, with an air of unjustified confidence. She always thought highly of her poker skills, but rarely won on account of she threw all her money in at once, typically on the first hand. As a result, everyone loved to play against her, so the number of players substantially increased once she sat down.

"Now, take it easy this time, Is," Spot murmured in warning, half jokingly. "You don't want another incident like the last time, alright?"

"Oh, come on Conlon. It wasn't that bad."

"Yeah, it was, actually. I ended up with a black eye!"

"That's just because you wouldn't let him take my money, and that's all you got was a black eye - you knocked the other guy out, Spot! I've got plenty to spare, you know. It's not even my money."

Spot shook his head, and returned to the game once more.

"Alright Conlon, I'll raise you two." A large boy hiding behind a cap, and one rather obviously missing front tooth, challenged.

"Fine. I'll match that, and raise you two more." Spot replied, eyeing the boy suspiciously. Isabel noticed that this boy was new, because no one challenged Spot.

An intense poker game followed, this time with Isabel dropping out instead of throwing it all in. It was down to the two boys, and Spot's face was becoming red with frustration. No one stayed in the game if Spot didn't drop out. It was a common known fact.

There was an intense silence as both boys eyed the other, challenging. The large boy decided to place his cards down first, with a confident smug look taking over his face as he stated, "A full house. Read 'em and weep, Conlon."

Everyone's eyes turned to Spot, whose vacant expression gave no hint as to what his hand was. Slowly, without his losing the other boy's gaze, he placed his cards on the table. More silence ensued, until Spot quietly said, "Looks like a royal flush, pal. Thanks fer playin."

The Brooklyn newsies cheered, and Isabel couldn't help but smile. He certainly had a way with dramatic endings.

After the game winnings were gathered, Spot and Isabel enjoyed a glass of cold beer, reminiscing the good ole days.

"I can still see your face now! You never thought I would do that. Oh, how I proved you wrong." Laughed Isabel.

"I know, I was impressed. I've nevah seen anyone run as fast as you did! And that angry ol' lady kept shouting at you, and you were so close to givin 'er 'er apple back."

"Yeah, yeah. I was young and I had never stolen before! By that time you were already a pro. I remember being quite envious of your pick-pocketing skills."

"Really? I was actually kinda ashamed of bein so good at it. I mean, I obviously pride myself in it now, but as a kid I was nevah proud of it. I felt real bad mosta tha time."

"Yeah, you had it pretty rough back then."

"Yeah."

A contemplative silence followed and Isabel began to feel somewhat guilty about bringing up Spot's early days. She knew he hated thinking about his childhood, at least the negative stretches. Once he had changed his name to Spot, the era of that scared little boy, with the less-than-intimidating name of Benjamin, was deliberately forgotten.

"I'm sorry, Conlon. I didn't mean to bring anything up ..."

After a long sigh, Spot replied, "It's alright, Is. Ya didn mean nothing by it. But, it's actually kinda late and I don't think you should be walkin home alone."

They moseyed about, grabbing their few articles of belongings, and shuffled out the door into the warm night. Both were completely content, and for two different reasons. Little did they know that their lives were about to change, as was their friendship.

* * *

A/N: So, this is my first story and I'm interested to see what you think -- don't be afraid to be honest! This chapter is a bit short, just one of those leading-to-the-fact chapters. It will get juicier as the plot progresses.

I also realized that I didn't include a disclaimer, so, for the comfort of all those Walt Disney execs, I do not own the Newsies in any way, and I am not making money off of these stories.

Enjoy! Let me know how I am doing.


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter 2:

The next week was a most boring one for Isabel, her family's age old routine of partying, a blatant flaunting of their wealth, becoming monotonous. She had been finding herself wanting to spend more time with Spot than anyone else she was acquainted with. They had been spotted around town quite frequently, both having to scramble away from each other to keep suspicion from being raised. All she was doing was accompanying Spot, who was watching over the newsies' sales in Brooklyn, making sure the selling was smooth.

Of course, Spot himself did not actually sell newspapers. He just supported those who sold under him, taking care of them and helping whenever he can. When he was younger, he was one of the top sellers and was swiftly moved to the top, eventually becoming the leader.

Spot was known for leading the top newspaper sales in all of New York, the Brooklyn newsies selling more papers per day than Queens and Manhattan put together.

Their ultimate rival, whose sales came in at a close second, was Queens. There had always been competition between Queens and Brooklyn, sometimes resulting in tumultuous outbreaks and broken noses. However, Spot had always managed to both play by the rules and remain on top.

What went along with all of this success, as the tale always seems to go, were women. Beautiful, sexy women, all attracted to the ever-conceited Spot Conlon whose crooked smile could make any girl melt in her boots. Much to Isabel's amusement, Spot had gone from girl to girl since the revelation of his attractiveness, and had an uncanny power over them. Not one girl had stuck to his side, he himself getting bored or finding someone even more arousing to look at.

Sometimes Isabel would have to smooth over particularly unpleasant breakups that Spot would never deal with himself, but that was about her only involvement in his love life. Or, in his case, lust life.

On their next Thursday gambling night, Isabel arrived on time, probably her first. Excited to show off the new poker trick she had learned at her family's most recent party, she was surprised to find Spot even there yet. No one seemed to know where he was or had heard from him.

After a confusing few conversations with Spot's comrades, she resigned to sipping at a beer while watching an uneventful game of poker.

Nearly an hour later, Spot wandered into the café with the smuggest look Isabel had ever seen on his face – which was saying quite a lot. His stride was that of a stroll and his clothes looked as though they had been washed, maybe even ironed, and he even had a worn sports coat slung over his right shoulder.

"Ss-Spot, do you realize you're nearly an hour late?" Isabel stammered, the only response she had to his oddly serene demeanor.

He merely looked at her with pleasantly misty eyes and replied, "Nope. Shall we play a few rounds, boys?"

Isabel eyed him suspiciously as he strolled over to the poker table and sat down, everyone uncomfortable around his new jovial disposition. This would not have been peculiar had he always arrived to their poker night in such a fashion, but his usual loud and boisterous arrival typically made everyone turn their heads. Now, with this content silence, no one knew how to react. Was he upset? Was he about to explode at any minute? Did something horrible just happen? It was becoming difficult to not think the worst.

"What's all this starin? We got a game ta play!"

Because the shock was still settling in, no one was able to make a move, so Spot impatiently – yet somehow, still happily – grabbed the deck of cards himself and began shuffling them. He even began to hum a little, which finally put everyone back into their senses.

"Uh, are you alright there Spot? Did something, like, happen?" One boy asked awkwardly, afraid to look at Spot for more than a second, his eyes darting to and fro.

"Why would something have just happened? I'm feelin great! Never been better!"

This statement was the last straw for Isabel. "Spot, could we talk outside?"

"Yeah, yeah. After this game," an excited Spot replied, lighting a cigarette. Isabel sighed and sat down next to him as he dealt the cards, the cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.

That particular poker game went quickly, resulting in Spot losing two dollars and fifty-five cents. The air was practically tangible as the group looked from Spot to the winner, waiting for him to lash out, maybe start a brawl, until he got his money back. However, they were all shocked and disappointed as Spot sighed, laughed, and said, "Welp, I'm out! Good game, er, Cricket. Well, not so good fer me, hah. We should play again soon."

At this statement, Isabel practically dragged him out of the café. Something was terribly wrong, and she was going to get to the bottom of it.

"Alright Spot, what happened exactly." She questioned. "Did you fall? Hit your head? What? Because you are starting to scare everyone."

"No, nothing happened! Jesus. Do you people always think something bad happened the minute I'm acting just a little different?"

"Look, if how you were acting in there was just a _little _different, then there would be nothing to worry about. However, you were acting like a fool in there! You just lost a substantial amount of money, Conlon, and you don't even seem to care! If you were, well, being you, then that kid would be on the ground before he could say he won. Now tell me, what is going on?"

Spot sighed, took off his cap, straightened his hair, and put it back on again, gathering the right words to use.

"Well," he began, unsure of how to say what he wanted to say, "Well, I met someone."

He the continued to fidget with the cane always at his side and blushed uncontrollably, not unlike a young child who has just confessed their most recent crush.

Isabel was stunned, and for once speechless. The notorious womanizer had just admitted he had met someone, and was actually blushing about it!

This instantly struck something inside Isabel, something she had never felt before. She had no idea what exactly the feeling was, but it was not a pleasant one. Her heart rate began to pick up speed and her stomach felt as though it was on fire.

"Are you … I mean, I – are you blushing?" She stammered, still recovering from the horrible new feeling inside of her. "I mean, have you really _met _someone, met someone? Or have you just met someone? Because, I don't mean to be rude, but you haven't exactly been the most chivalrous of men with your, shall we say, love interests in the past."

"Hey, I resent that. You know how I usually feel when it comes to the ladies. This is just as weird for me as it is for you, alright? This one is just … different." His last few words trailed off with the slight breeze that had just suddenly arrived, as if on cue.

They both stood out there in front of the café uncomfortably for a while, each lost in completely different trains of thought.

Isabel found herself feeling upset and unsettled. _Why am I feeling this way? Am I ill? Did I eat something bad? _This new feeling was confusing and she was unable to pinpoint what it was exactly, a fact that was even more devastating.

"So," Isabel attempted, clearing her throat, "Who – what's she like? What's her name?"

"Her name's Jane. She's a real nice girl, and has the prettiest eyes a guy could stand to look at, you know? And she's just got this way 'bout her. I dunno, I can't really explain it or anything. All I know is that she really is great."

Isabel felt her stomach flare up at his words, and all she could bring herself to do was smile weakly and grunt, and a convincingly thoughtful-sounding grunt. How could this be? Spot interested in a girl? Questions floated around her head in such distress, dizzying her ability to think clearly. All she seemed capable of doing was feeling this new, awful feeling.

To avoid appearing at all the way she really felt, she decided to keep him talking. "So, hm ... how did you meet her? Is she your same age?"

"Well, yeah she is. But it's kinda corny how we met. As long as you swear never to tell my boys, I'll tell you." His blushing mannerisms became suddenly serious at his request, and he looked her straight in the eye with his ice cold stare, matching the beautifully electric blue eyes behind it. She nodded as they sat down on a bench outside the café.

"Alright, promise not to do that thing you do when I tell you something and you think it's stupid, okay?" He quieted her protests and continued. "Okay. Well, I was just out there on the streets the other day, helpin out one of my new boys in selling the paper, when I see this just gorgeous girl walk up and buy a pape from 'im. She's got this real dark hair with curls in it, and I just couldn't stop lookin at her and those beautiful brown eyes. Iz, she is perfect. We really hit it off, too, obviously. I've just never felt this way before, you know?"

Isabel looked at him for a long time, meeting his steady, honest gaze, soaking in his words; words he has never used before, especially about a girl. Where she had been finding it hard to believe, she now believed he was being genuine with her.

"Wow, Conlon, you really do mean all that, don't you?"

"Yeah, for the first time, I think I've found someone I wanna … be with. For real." The look following this statement seemed that of both clarity and revelation.

Stunned Isabel struggled to keep her cool. "Well, congratulations! This is much better news than what I was expecting."

"Yeah, but in a way, it is bad news," smirked Spot.

"What do you mean?" She asked on autopilot, distracted. Her attention had shifted to her newfound realization of that awful feeling she was experiencing, but she was afraid to even think it. Isabel Clemmons could not and will not feel that way.

"I mean, imagine all the disappointed ladies out there. This is a big loss for the many women of New York City, Iz."

Isabel laughed, but only because it was so ironic.


	4. Chapter Three, Part I

Chapter 3:

Jealousy.

That all consuming feeling within her stomach and body was that of jealousy, a horrible feat to comprehend for a person such as Isabel. Was her suddenly dry mouth and racing heart actually happening as a result? She has never, ever been jealous of anything or anyone because she has always had everything she's wanted, and there was nothing she could not get. Why this feeling now?

Thoughts raced through her mind as she walked home that night. Memories of her and Spot growing up together came flooding back, and she realized that there was only one constant in their relationship – Spot was always single. Never once had he ever been serious about any one girl for more than a few days, and yet here he was, suddenly infatuated – genuinely infatuated – with a girl. And never once had he pursued her. Never once …

On the contrary, she had never pursued him or even thought about it, but that seemed to trouble her even more. Was she unattractive to him? Why hadn't he ever attempted to seduce her?

She very well knew the answer to this, but refused to hear it. At that moment, all logical explanations seemed to be banished to the back of her mind, along with her ability to think of anything else besides Spot.

Isabel's love life had been consistently non-existent, a choice she had made many years ago when her father's marriages had continually failed. Not that she was never pursued, for she was, quite often. She had just never considered being with anyone else for she felt content being independent in a world where most women were not.

What's more, no man had ever caught her eye, or her fancy.

_What is this?_ She thought in a frenzy,_ why am I possibly jealous? Am I actually interested in …_ Isabel shuddered and violently shook her head as she discontinued that last thought. There was no way, _no way_that she could be interested in her best friend, possibly her only friend. He was not at all the type of man she was typically attracted to. He was not even wealthy! Never once had he shown any sign of being interested in her as anything more than a friend, and vice versa. And yet here she was, thinking about him, as though she saw him as more.

_No, _she thought firmly, _I am in no way interested in Spot Conlon. He has been my best friend since I can remember_. In her head, she put an emphasis on the "friend" bit.

In a sudden shift of focus, her thoughts turned to this new mystery girl that had single-handedly swept the King off his feet. Who was she? What kind of girl was she? Was she wealthy or poor? Spot could easily get anyone he desired with a quick wink of his beautiful eye, why this one?

_No, _she repeated to herself, _he is your best friend. I'm sure he has met someone lovely. You don't care, because you are just friends, and that is how you both see each other. Friends._

Her inner thoughts that were meant to calm her enduringly unruly nerves did no such deed. In fact, she began to upset herself with those words. She was so conflicted and confused; she had no way to understand herself.

"Oh!" She cried as she bumped into a surprisingly large gate. Looking up, she found that she recognized the gate, and inwardly kicked herself for so unwittingly crashing into it.

Without realizing it, she had walked all the way home in record timing. She had been so lost in her own thoughts she hadn't even noticed her surroundings at all, let alone her own home. 

This caused even more frustration and she angrily stomped the ground, flailing her arms about, and grumbling in a rather un-lady-like fashion.

Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. As she thought more, the ill-fated realization finally seeped in. She did, just maybe, have feelings for Spot. Only a very small, very minute, bit. Isabel Clemmons most likely had feelings for Spot Conlon. And much to her surprise, the more she let herself think such a thought, the more comfortable she felt about it.

However, the minute she stepped back from that thought and looked at the situation, she turned it away once more. That was just completely inappropriate. Her determination rapidly turned towards shunning this thought as far away in her mind as possible. She in no way could ever feel that way about him. It was just wrong; improper; unsuitable.

She finally reached a conclusion that night. If she planned on being genuinely uninterested in him, she had to meet this new girl and befriend her. She had to keep her cool around seeing them together, thus proving that she was okay with it, and maybe her feelings would follow.

_No_, she told herself a final time, _my feelings about him are as they've always been. I don't have feelings for Spot. I have nothing to prove but my honesty._

"What do you want to do again? I don't think I heard you right." Spot's tone was full of humor and skepticism at Isabel's out-of-character request.

"I said I would like to meet Jane, maybe get to know her a little. Why is that so odd to you?"

"It's not _odd_, as you so glamorously put it. You've just never wanted to meet someone in my life without me beggin you to, is all. I'm just not used to you requestin such things."

"Well, if you don't want me to meet her, I'd – "

"No, you aren't getting it, Iz! I do want you ta meet her. I'm just surprised that you're askin it yourself and not the other way around."

"Oh," Isabel was slightly embarrassed about her jump to a false conclusion, but she was the master of recovery. "Well, alright then. When shall I meet her?" She was very impressed with herself.

"Well, how about this Thursday, before the poker game? We could all meet there a little early and you two could get ta know each other."

"Is she going to accompany us to the poker games?"

"Yeah, Jane told me that she's real good at poker. I think you two are really gonna hit it off."

"I've no doubt, Conlon." She smiled her biggest of smiles. This was not so difficult, she told herself with convincing confidence.

That Thursday, she walked into the café earlier than she had ever been, before Spot and this new Jane girl could make their entrance. She wanted to find a seat in the corner so they could have some privacy, plus she felt more comfortable when she was the one orchestrating the situation.

Sitting down, she felt a rush of adrenaline. Questions about this new girl bubbled up to the surface once again, and without warning. She struggled to keep those questions at bay, for they so strongly wanted to make themselves known.

"Iz! You're early!" An enthusiastic Spot shouted from the doorway across the room. She meekly waved to him as she looked tentatively behind him for his special girl.

Time seemed to decelerate as he pulled a smiling girl by the hand into Isabel's line of sight. Her heart seemed to stop as she slowly saw first her beautiful brunette curls, then her pale complexion, followed by the most radiant smile she had ever seen. Her teeth were perfectly aligned and practically sparkling, her rosy cheeks emphasizing this fact. Isabel was astoundingly mortified by it all. This girl was the most beautiful girl Isabel had ever laid eyes on.

At that moment, Isabel knew that the angry mob of butterflies within her stomach was a sign – it was going to be a very, very long night.

* * *

A/N: This was a tough one! After much toil, I decided to split this chapter into two parts instead of having one long one. As a pleasant result, the next chapter is nearly finished, I'm just working out a few details. I hope you enjoyed!


	5. Chapter Three, Part II

Chapter 3, Part II:

And yet, it was a beauty she felt she had been graced with before.

Isabel smiled as they approached, trying with great effort not to eye Jane so persistently. She knew she had seen her somewhere before, she just could not, for the life of her, put her finger on it.

"Isabel, I would like you to meet Jane," Spot politely introduced.

"It's a pleasure, Jane, to finally meet you." Isabel attempted, reaching out her hand.

"And likewise," Jane effortlessly replied, taking Isabel's hand in her own. "Spot has told me a great deal about you."

"Has he?" Isabel was flattered. "Only the good things, I hope."

"Aw, common Iz. You know I only got good things ta say about you." Spot smiled at the two as they both sat down, leaving them alone to get some drinks.

"So, have you lived in New York your whole life?" Isabel began courteously.

"For the most part, yes. I was actually born in Maryland, but my family moved out to the city when I was two, so this is all I really know, but I love it here."

In her head, Isabel was taking tabs on Jane. She knew she had seen her before, but seemed intent on not mentioning such wonderments. Where is the fun in bringing it all onto the table?

As the night, and the drinks, wore on, Spot and Jane appeared to grow closer and closer. Their bodies were acting as though they were magnetically attached, and not in the repelling manner. Seeing this happen so naturally caused Isabel to drink beer after beer, gulping down each pint, each gulp making the situation more amusing and less uncomfortably devastating.

Unfortunately, Isabel was not a particularly charming drunk, as most people are not. This did not work to her advantage, to say the least. And no matter how much she told herself she was OK, she continued to feel the sting of envy.

After Jane and Spot had played a few rounds of poker, Isabel stewing in her own jealousy as she watched Jane show off her unexpectedly gifted poker skills, they sat cozily next to one another, Spot's arm resting upon the outside of her chair. In Isabel's drunken eyes, this was a moment worth disrupting.

As she walked with as much dignity she could muster in her current state, she grabbed a nearby chair and asked very nicely, "May I join you two?"

Before either Jane or Spot could reply, she forcibly plopped her chair in between theirs, causing both to leap to either side in order to avoid getting pummeled. Her chair landed with a clamoring thud that resounded throughout the room.

"Thank you," Isabel replied as she merrily assembled onto her newly formed seat.

"What the hell, Iz?" Spot shouted, glaring her down, his icy blue eyes baring into her heart.

"Oh, I'm sorry you two!" She slurred, feigning ignorance. "I seemed to've fallen. I apologize." At this, she giggled to herself and sipped once more at her nearly empty glass of beer.

"I think you've had enough." Spot muttered, attempting to grab the glass out of her hands.

"No! Wait!" She cried, as she finished the small bits of foam left at the bottom. With a satisfying smack of her lips, she wittingly held it out to Spot and stated, "Here, you can have it now."

After grabbing it out of her flimsy grip, Spot leaned closer to her, causing her heart to leap, and whispered, "Is everything okay with you? You've been actin real weird all night."

"I am completely fine, Spot! Never been better, really. Now, I need to talk to Jane now, if you'll excuse me." She turned sharply to Jane, head swinging around, who was sitting with embarrassment at her other side. "So, are you rich, miss Jane?"

"Iz!"

"No, it's okay, Spot." Jane attempted. "If you're asking if I have money, then yes, I guess I do. My family lives fairly comfortably. But if you're asking if I'm wealthy, then I would say no."

"Mmhm, mmhm." Isabel nodded in what was supposed to appear as contemplation, but instead came across as belligerently-drunken stupor.

"Watch it, Iz …" Spot warned, placing a firm hand on her arm and squeezing.

"What? I'm not doing anything wrong." She huffed in response to Spot's warning and turned once more to Jane, who was sending pleading glances to Spot. "So … What do you like about Spot?"

"Well," Jane visibly blushed at this question, despite Isabel's obvious inebriated manner, and peered down at the floor. "It really is a number of things bundled into one. I've yet to find a quality about him I don't like."

"Hmm …" Isabel smartly responded, turning to see a star-struck Spot looking at Jane with a look of pure, unadulterated admiration. "So, Jane," she started once more, breaking the romance-filled air, "You seem to be a girl with a good amount of wit and, well, money." She outwardly pushed Spot's objections away with her left arm without turning to look at him. "What're you doing looking around for potential fiancés in places like these? I mean, no offense Spot, but there're plenty of well to do men out there with a bit more dough, you know?"

"Alright, this is ridiculous." Spot finally interjected, bolting out of his seat and facing Isabel. "Hey, wait!" Isabel cried, arms waving, "I am getting to a point. I just think I've seen you before in a place that requires a lot of dough, is all I'm saying."

Spot had dealt with enough and angrily pulled his cap out of his back pocket and shoved it on his head, glaring down at an unaware Isabel. "I thought that you meeting Jane was something you really wanted ta do, and I thought it was important to you, but I see now it obviously isn't. You're acting like a complete asshole, Iz, and for no reason. And I'm not about to stand by and watch you ruin this perfectly good evening. Let's go, Jane."

And with that, Spot took Jane's hand in his and they walked away, and out the door, leaving a very drunk Isabel all by herself.

As she watched them leave, she saw Jane's beautiful curls bounce away from the door just as she was out of view, a visible look of wicked mischievousness dancing upon her lips, a wink catching her hazel eye before swiftly abandoning it. In a flourish, the curls were once more in sight, before they left the building, Spot in tow.

Isabel sat stunned, her mouth gaping.

What could have possibly possessed Jane to give her such a look? Yes, she was hammered and slurring each of her words indignantly, but would not that be even more reason to assume she was not in her right mind? Maybe she was not as kind as she would have preferred, but her sensor-control was considerably low.

Isabel felt foolish, her head spinning at the angry flow of thoughts within it. She walked home with a stumble that night, somehow reaching her room just time before she felt she was deathly sick.

The next morning, she awoke in her room, sprawled out onto her bed, clothing from the night before still on. Rolling onto her back, she felt her head pounding, as though her veins wished to explode from the confines of her skin.

_Why am I such a goddamned idiot? _She thought to herself miserably, remembering her actions of the previous night. She had no idea what exactly had overcame her, mind the alcohol, to be such an arrogant asshole. Jane had been perfectly polite to her the entire night, and here she had to go and ruin it.

She groaned to herself as she covered her face with her hands, as though it would rid her of her current state of nausea and embarrassment. How could she possibly fix this? And then, as though a bolt of lightning had struck her, she darted upright in alarm, remembering that final glance Jane had left her with. Did she imagine that look of malice in her drunken state? Or could it possibly have been real? She shook her head once more, she must have imagined it. There was no reason, well maybe only a few, why Jane would give her such a smug look of conceit.

As she sipped at her very black cup of coffee that morning, bathed in a silky bathrobe with a peach hue, she thought through many different strategies to win back Spot's friendship, or at least have them come to decent terms. She had acted like a fool, and she knew she had to fix it, and she knew exactly what would help her plight.

Her cup of coffee empowered her, the caffeine sending waves of anxious determination into her veins, her need to mend things with Spot consuming her. She dressed quickly, pulling a raggedy bonnet onto her charming head of dark curls and snatching that small, yet significant, item out of her dresser, letting herself be immersed in nostalgia for a moment. And a moment later, she was rushing out the door to her singular destination – Spot.

She searched frantically all over town, in every place he could have been. She saw him nowhere on the streets, despite the assuring words of all the newsboys she inquired. Spot was nowhere to be found, and she finally trekked over to the Brooklyn Lodging House, the last place she could possibly look.

Upon arriving to the Lodging house, an audible shudder of contempt took over her veins, the repulsive simplicity of the structure overwhelming her spoiled eyes. She never understood how Spot could live in such a place. Taking a deep, comforting breath, she stepped onto the rickety staircase leading to the abrasive door ahead of her. The door creaked loudly as she pressed her delicate fingers to it, her heart beginning to race. It had been several years since her last visit there, and she had hoped it was her last at the time. She simply did not enjoy experiencing their conditions of living.

The main living area was deserted, most of the newsboys out selling papers. There were not too many pieces of furniture, save the moth-eaten couch in the far corner and a small, low-to-the-ground poker table in the center with several prehistoric chairs surrounding it. The staircase to the upstairs boarding rooms was near the doorway, breaking the room into two, the other side only bearing the sign-in table where they pay rent. The elderly man who took these records was not currently there. He only woke them up and took their money in the evening.

"Spot?" Isabel called out, straining her ears for a reply. She received no response. "Hello? Are you here? It's your ungrateful asshole of a friend, Isabel, attempting to make amends."

At that, she heard a door swing open from the floor above her, followed by footsteps quickly and harshly clanking down the groaning stairs. Spot came into view, rushing at her, anger fierce in his eyes.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He demanded, only stopping mere inches from where she was standing, his eyes piercing her own, just asking her to make one wrong move.

Stunned and slightly afraid, Isabel tried to get out what she had wanted to say, but instead stated, "What are you doing here? I've looked everywhere for you, and no one seemed to know where you were. You're usually out on the streets by this time."

Spot glared at her incredulously, his fists clenching. "So you came all the way here just to point out that I'm not on tha streets today? Wouldja like me ta write out my daily routine on yer schedule, missus, so ya know when I will and won't be there?" His voice was stiff with suppressed rage, although his ears were a shade of scarlet.

"No," Isabel was feeling very nervous as his anger became more apparent, "I, well, actually, I came here to – "

"To what, exactly?" Spot shouted, the ancient walls shivering at his voice, "To apologize? I think you're passed that, there. Ya know, I had ta comfort her the whole resta the night? She was cryin her eyes out causah you, because you were so goddamn rude to her. It wasn't easy ta take yer side, let me tell you. And the dumbass that I am, I actually tried. Damn it, and you actually had the nerve to come find me here on my only fuckin day off?"

Silence followed except for Spot's heavy breathing. Isabel couldn't even bring herself to look him in the eyes, the feeling of shame crushing all other senses. "I really am sorry, Ben," she muttered. Spot softened at the use of his real name, one of his hands finding their way through his thick, dirty blonde hair.

"I just … I can't really say anything else, for I cannot justify any of my foul actions last night. I just wanted to give you this." She pulled out the small item the she had been keeping hidden. "Remember when we told each other that, if anything ever went wrong between us, we'd bring this to the other to remind them of our friendship?" Spot curtly nodded, not looking her in the eyes. "Well, here. It is my turn to do this for you once more."

She held out the item, it resting in the palm of her hand. Spot paced a while, not even giving her a glance, his hands running through his hair and grasping at the gold-tipped cane at his side. Finally, after what felt like hours, he turned to Isabel once more, and hesitantly removed the item from her hand. It had been a while since he had seen it.

He chuckled as he felt the cold metal press against his skin, memories flooding his brain. "You talked me into joining Jacky Boy and the Walkin Mouth in the strike when I was wearin this last." Isabel smiled, recalling the moment.

"You were so furious with them! You didn't think you could take them seriously, but they would have never been able to succeed had you not joined them."

Spot smiled, his crooked, authentic smile. "Thanks, Iz." Their eyes locked at his thanks, and her heart began to flutter as though it had suddenly grown wings. Her face felt hot, her cheeks beginning to turn a lovely shade of crimson, at least it felt as such. Neither spoke, their gaze putting both in an unexpected trance.

His bright blue eyes twinkled, a sudden question appearing within their depths. He opened his mouth to speak, his brow creasing with this question dancing upon his lips.

The moment was interrupted by a rowdy group of newsboys pounding through the front doors, causing both Spot and Isabel to jump and break their gaze, the thought once present dashing away once more.

"Heya, Spot, sleepin in late?" One of the boys called, Spot playfully slapping him in the arm as a retort.

Isabel took a step back. "I'm sorry, again, Spot. I promise I will never be such a fool and I hope you can give me a second chance. Now it's your turn to have it back." With this, she turned on her heels and rushed out, completely confused and wondering what exactly had just taken place.

Spot stood, slightly dumbfounded at the ridiculous thought that had risen in their gaze. He shook his head, smirking, and opened his hand once more to peer at the gift she had handed over. With a sigh and a toss of his skilled hands, it was dangling from his neck as it had three years ago.

It was his key – their key – that now, once again, hung around his neck.

* * *

A/N: Thank you to Butterfly Conlon for being my voice of reason.


	6. Chapter Four

Chapter 4:

The streets were incredibly busy that day as Isabel practically ran back home from the Lodging House. She was still shaken up by her most recent encounter with Spot, and she was still confused by the mess of it all. Making sense of her own emotions was hard enough, but attempting to understand what had just happened with Spot? Impossible.

Rushing past a particularly unsightly street, Isabel had a sudden nostalgic remembrance of her very first encounter with Spot. It had begun as a gloomy one for her, but he had managed to recover her fallen dignity, despite them both being merely the tender age of five.

Oh, that doll she had wanted! She remembered that beautiful doll her mother had promised her, but was unable to purchase. And the little shop it had sat in, although now it seemed foolish to have wanted anything from it, she had admired that doll for several weeks. Thinking back fondly only brought on the negative memories of such a story. With the introduction of Spot came the ending of her enemy.

A tear had fallen down her cheek as she sat in front of the shop, and she felt ashamed of it. She had just wiped it away when she heard a snicker from behind her, knowing it to be from that vile creature named Dirk. Turning around sharply, she saw him, once again, laughing at her.

"What are you crying about now, Isasmell?" The seven year old had scoffed.

"My name isn't Isa-smell, Dirk!" She cried, tears falling freshly, "It's Isabel! And I'm not crying!" Oh, how she had hated that name.

The boy laughed again, "Sure, little girl." He turned his head to look through the glass of the store she was so contently sitting in front of.

"Hey, that's a nice doll in there, isn't it?"

Isabel didn't know what to say. He had always, always made fun of her for loving dolls, but now he was suddenly interested. "Yeah, it is. I think it's lovely." She looked down, clinging her hands together tightly, not knowing how to stop the tears.

Dirk slowly made the connection between the doll and Isabel's tears, and a slow smile crept across his face. "So, you're cryin about this old thing, are you? Mommy and Daddy couldn't get you a stupid little doll, is that it?"

Isabel shook her head furiously, not wanting Dirk to know anything about her or her desires. He scoffed in her direction as he turned to walk into the store.

"No! What are you doing?" Isabel cried, her hands to her tear-stained face. "Why are you going in there?"

"I just want to look around, little Isasmell." He laughed again, this time with the most hideous sneer she had yet to encounter again, and walked through the door and into the small shop. She watched in horror through the stained window. He was talking to an old woman at the counter, pointing at that lovely doll sitting so helplessly in the window. The woman happily removed the doll from its confines and it disappeared. All she was able to see was Dirk's evil face smiling at her, a vicious twinkle in his eyes.

He stepped out onto the street again, doll in hand, and casually began to trot down the street, away from a very perplexed Isabel. To this day that moment continues to bring a rise in her.

"Why are you holding that?" Isabel managed to shriek at him, more confused and upset than she had ever been. He was whistling casually to himself as he let innocent Isabel follow, not giving her any sort of acknowledgement. "What are you doing with that? That's mine! My mama told me I could have it when she can buy it!"

He stopped suddenly and turned, "What, this old thing? This is the stupid doll you're crying about?" He laughed again, and continued his stroll along the unkempt streets.

"What are you going to do with a doll? You don't even like dolls!"

He feigned a look of offense. "I happen to really enjoy feeding them to my dogs, thank you very much."

"NO!" Isabel cried. Grasping onto his spindly arm, she struggled to rescue the doll from a horrible fate.

"Hey, you little brat, get off of me!" Dirk shook his arm vigorously, but she refused to let go. He placed his hand atop her head and pushed her to the filthy street. He leaned forward, his evil smile taking over his features, and shook the doll in front of her crying form.

"Hold it right there, wise guy," came a high pitched Irish-laced voice. Isabel turned, wiping away the tears blurring her vision, and saw a boy her own age standing a few feet away. He was clothed in slacks and a dirty button down, a cap resting upon his head. A sling shot was poised taught, directed point-blank at none other than Dirk.

"What do ya think you're doing to this nice lady here?"

Dirk spun and comprehended this little boy holding a sling-shot. "And what are you planning on doing with that, huh? Are you really going to hit me? It's a stupid sling shot!"

With that, the boy released his first marble, it hitting Dirk square between the eyes. Dirk let out a howl of pain and fell to the ground, clutching his bruising forehead. The little boy reloaded his sling shot, and stated, "Now what are you gonna do, wise guy? It hurts, doesn't it?"

Spot, in theory, had saved Isabel and her beloved doll. After that first shot of the marble, Dirk had scampered away, leaving the doll behind for Isabel to enjoy for herself. After that, they had been best friends, sharing practically everything together.

Her memories were interrupted by her two of her fellow spoiled acquaintances.

"Isabel, darling! What are you doing out here on such a horrid day?" One blonde inquired. Isabel had reached the nicer part of town and had thankfully visited Spot in her normal attire. The weather was indeed a bit sweltering.

"Oh, well, just out shopping. My father promised me a new dress for our upcoming banquet." There was a coo of excitement throughout the twosome at the thought of buying something new. Isabel was substantially irritated. "Yes, it has unfortunately been an unsuccessful venture, I'm afraid, so I must be off. I've got to inform my father that we may need to hire a person tailor."

"That's a shame! I could have sworn there were so many lovely new dresses out there," the blonde, Beverly, huffed. "That means I may have to get my own personal tailor. They are just so frustrating to work with!"

There was a nod of agreement. "Well, I really must be going, ladies. I will see you two tonight." With that, Isabel escaped. Beverly in particular did not mesh well with Isabel and her overall personality, thus it was difficult for her to be around them for too long.

How did it get to this? Isabel felt fake. She hated feeling such a way, and she hated change even more. Spot had really only been the constant in her life, even though he had gone through a few changes of his own in his life time.

She remembered the first time she had to stop calling him Ben as she quickly headed home. It had been the Fall of 1894, and although it bothered her, he had not been so excited in a long time.

"Iz! Iz! Isabel!" A loud voice came echoing through the streets and Isabel could hear it from a mile away. She had been waiting there for nearly an hour at the bench they liked to meet at in Prospect Park. She turned her head to see Ben flying through the streets, a bag slung around his shoulder, a look of pure joy painted across his face.

Once he reached her bench, he stopped, resting his hands upon his knees and bending over, attempting to catch his excited breath.

"What is it? What happened?" Isabel inquired. He looked up at her, that smirk upon his lips.

"I did it, Iz, I did it! I sold more than a hundred papes taday!" He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her own expression to match his jovial one. She obliged happily, her face lighting up as though it was Christmas.

"Wow, Ben!" She exclaimed, standing up to hug him. "That's truly wonderful news. You mother is going to be so proud."

"Yeah, I'd hoped. But, there's even more." He paused dramatically before he continued, "They'se want ta move me up … into a higher job. The othah newsies want me tah be their leadah. Ya know, be the one that everyone toins to when they need, like, guidance."

"Wow, Conlon! That's even better! What comes along with this leadership position? Do you get paid more or anything?"

Ben looked down at his feet, kicking the gravel beneath it. "Well, actually, they'se givin me my own room."

Isabel stared dubiously. "You mean, at the Lodging House? That filthy Lodging House filled with filthy boys?"

"Hey! Watch it, Iz. Not all ah us have it as good as you, ya know. You don't even have ta woik." He glared at her, causing Isabel to back down from her previous convictions.

"Alright, Conlon, alright. I'm sorry. It's just, you're so much better than that. You can do so much better. And what about your mother?"

"Well, we all gotta start somewhere. This is where I'm startin. As fer my mothah, she has been tryin ta kick me outta tha house evah since ya bailed me outta tha Refuge. She wants nothing ta do with me cause I remind her ah my pops. I gotta do this, fer myself, got it?"

Isabel nodded reluctantly after staring at him, looking for a few hints of hesitancy, but found none. She hated when he got that way, when he got demanding and hot-headed.

He was getting much more aggressive these days. All of those street fights were beginning to take a toll on his attitude. He was already becoming known for his reckless fighting and ability, his name was being whispered amongst the streets kids as one to be feared.

"Also, they'se gots a nickname fer me now." He stood proudly.

"I know." She sighed. "I've already heard it at least a dozen times just sitting here."

"Oh, yeah?" He turned to her, joining her on the bench, his smirk evident. "By who? Poity ladies, I'm hopin."

"God, Conlon. Is that all you think about now? Fighting, selling, and girls?" She was a bit put off.

"Nah, I think about gambling too." She couldn't help but release a small laugh. He laughed a little too, before his attitude shifted to that of seriousness.

"Ya know that name they'se callin me?"

"Yeah?"

"You prolly bettah start callin me that from now on. I don't want no one ta know my real name anymore. The new one is kinda who I am now."

"You really want me to call you that?" She shuddered at the thought of calling him by the same name street kids knew him as. It was slightly repulsive. "Why did they pick that name, anyways? I mean, no offense, Conlon, but it's not exactly the most threatening of names."

"It's cause I got such a good shot! Haven't missed one thing I was aimin at, not one. You outta all people shoulda known that."

She nodded in response. The unfortunate realization of their changing lives seeped steadily, as though it was molasses, into the deep crevices of her mind. It was going become much more difficult to maintain their friendship with their worlds, little by little, becoming farther apart. He was already becoming infamous amongst the streets, where she was moving up the class scale.

"Oh, hey," Spot shuffled through his beige newspaper bag, "I found something that I though ya might like." After much drudgery, he finally grabbed hold of what he was so intently looking for, and held it out to a curious Isabel. "I thought of you and, I guess, our friendship when I found this. I was divin off tha pier by tha Logdin House, when I found this in tha sand. I thought it would be appropriate cause, ya know, it's a little like our friendship – kinda secret, but still important."

Again, Isabel stared as Ben opened his palm to reveal a key resting upon it. She was speechless. This small, seemingly insignificant object before her eyes was one of the most thoughtful gifts she had ever received.

"Wow, Conlon," she tentatively picked up the key, admiring its simplicity. "This is probably the most thoughtful thing you're ever done. And with a very nice ending line, I might add."

"It's poity neat, ain't it?" He looked positively pleased with himself. "I thought you'd like it."

Isabel concealed the key within the folds of her dress and looked him straight in the eyes, a glimmer of a smile resting on her lips. "Thank you." He smiled back, matching her gaze, looking her in the eyes, and then averting his attention to his feet. A comfortable silence ensued.

Interrupting the quiet by realizing the time, Ben stated, "Well, I gotta split, sorry fer bein so late." Ben stood, bag at his side, his hand poised for a shake.

She reached for his hand. "It's really fine, Ben –" She was stopped by a stern look from him as he squeezed her hand amidst their shake. She sighed and grudgingly said, "Fine, it's okay _Spot_ for your being late. I'll see you soon. Thank you, again, for the gift. I am honestly shocked at your thoughtfulness. You really aren't capable of being dull, are you?"

Satisfied, a twinkle in his eye, he grinned. With a tap of his cap and a mischievous wink, he was gone, shouting out fictional headlines.

* * *

A/N: Thank you to Butterfly Conlon for reading through this and saving me from myself.

Also, thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! This one was by far the most difficult for me to put together. I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
